It Ends Tonight
by 1BadJoke
Summary: "Those who live, live off the dead." -Antonin Artaud  Read the Warnings


**Title:** It Ends Tonight  
><strong>CharactersPairings:**Draco-centric, DM/HP, Hermione Granger, Pansy Parkinson  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13  
><strong>Word Count:<strong>4397  
><strong>Warnings:<strong>Colorful language, MAJOR character death, suicidal thoughts, and Zombies!  
><strong>Prompt:<strong> A loved one (lover, child, parent) underwent the change, and some base instinct keeps them coming back at night to bang on the door and keen. Character of choice can't sleep and sits on the other side of the door devastated.  
><strong>Summary:<strong>"Those who live, live off the dead." -Antonin Artaud

Feedback is Love!

* * *

><p>When his eyes open, it's not a flutter of snow white lashes; it's the snapping of purple lids flying apart like opposing magnets.<p>

Dry, itchy, bloodshot.

He knows he sleeps. He knows this, because he dreams of wonderful and terrible things, but the evidence of his rest is displayed in the sunken bruises under dull gray eyes and the heaviness perpetually clinging to his limbs. Sleep feels like a slow blink interrupted by life. Or at least something like it.

He needs to, but he can't.  
>He should, but he won't.<p>

It used to make sense, but now for the life of him he can't remember _why_there has to be any logic to it.

The tiles beneath his feet are ice as he moves through the kitchen. The tea kettle is whistling in seconds with the help of a flicked wand, then quickly silenced. It is a rule nowadays to stay quiet at night; to make a sound is suicide, unless one wants for them to come for him.

He ignores the fact he had let the shrill whistle draw out seconds longer than he normally would have.

Two sugars with a twist of lemon, just the way he hates it. A large slice of treacle tart is placed with culinary precision onto a spotless plate. He would have to acquire more china soon. He worries over this as he chews on his lip, adjusting the dessert just so. The last eight plates have been broken and he keeps the sticky, shattered pieces like precious jewels in a chest under his bed. He never goes into why, and he's thankful Pansy knows nothing of his collection. He's sure it would be something she would be intent on having him explain, and he's quite sure the answer could not be confined to calm and controlled words.

Red light from the setting sun slipping past the heavy drapes of the front windows slices across his pale skin and burns his vision. He doesn't waste any time carrying the tea and plate along with silverware and a serviette to the foyer. Front doors slam just as he maneuvers open his own, placing his armload on the stoop, a cool breeze ruffling lank, flaxen locks. A muggle woman walking her dog across the street looks up to the sky and promptly breaks out into a run, dragging the gagging and tripping canine behind her. The behavior hardly surprises him anymore. He's sure he would do much of the same, that is, if he left the house at all.

The fresh air doesn't smell fresh but organic and dank, and he's relieved when the door is closed and unyielding against his spine, blocking out the outside. The waning light had almost felt too hot on his skin, foreign as it has become. It worries him how _unworried_he is by the revelation.

It all started six weeks and four days ago-

No, that's not right, maybe two days before that when the reports were unbelievable and everything had yet to spread like wildfire.

Then again he could easily go back as far as three years when an owl arrived at his window bearing a messily scrawled invitation to dinner, or one month before that when a bespectacled git showed up on his manor doorstep equipped with a stolen wand, a tentative truce, and a determined set to his poorly shaven jaw.

The blame in the end, actually, belongs to Draco, no matter how many times his obnoxious, over-opinionated "friends" tried to tell him the contrary. He knows what happened that day and they don't, simple as that. He was there after all. He wishes he hadn't been, but more importantly he wishes-

The strip of sunlight painting a thin portion of the wall oozes slowly up to the ceiling until it vanishes from sight, and the room is dark. He stares at the previously glowing area for long seconds after, thrilled by it's departure and equally despairing over it. He longs for the night yet dreads it.

It's the only time he ever feels... alive.

For minutes all is still in the fresh twilight, as if everyone and everything forgot to breathe in light of the severe, sudden _lack _of it. Cringing, almost. Like knowing something is wrong and being helpless but to reach out with shaking fingers to it only to have teeth that scrape and chew snap at them.

Eventually we're fooled and dare to breathe again in the quiet, and within the exhale there's a subtle interruption. The first rustlings of stiff limbs shuffling through the night, and then Draco waits.

Everything had changed on a Tuesday. Sometimes, when he can think of nothing else all day, he can only laugh hysterically over that fact. Who the bloody fuck has their life ruined on a _Tuesday_? Out of all the days in the week, the most forgettable one. They should have stayed home, but, no, he just had to go out for dinner at a four star restaurant. He'd insisted. They'd gone for supper at that Burrow place infested with Weasels the night before; it was only fair for the next night to be spent how he saw fit. Relationships did have that whole "Give and Take, Fair's Fair" malarkey, did they not?

The muggle establishment had been packed since no one took any of the news reports seriously; they were small blurbs on the telly following sports or tiny blips on the back page of the _Profit_. Nothing to actually worry over. Honestly, who would?

Funny how things could change so drastically in mere seconds.

He remembers the throaty sound of coughing, loud hacking that had more than a few heads turning in its direction until... until there was a clatter of dishes breaking and blood-curdling screaming.

Screaming was all he heard after that. It was overturned tables, stampeding feet, and chaos. Chaos and red. He'd been stunned by it, frozen in his seat, fork and knife still poised over his steak, eyes wide like saucers. From behind, foreign hands latched with a punishing grip onto his shoulder and scratching fingers tangled into his hair and yanked-

He claims it all becomes a blur after that, his eyes darting to the side and never regaining that keen focus until the conversation has ended and the inquiring party has gone. With every passing day, more and more does his gaze become less pronounced, less present, drifting over persistent friends, only for them to shiver as if a ghost had passed through them.

With the atmosphere they now lived in, one probably had.

What they suspect is confirmed when he denies the aid of a pensieve, because he does remember. All of it. Why would he want to see it all again after having unfortunately lived through it? The Weasel was a moron for insisting otherwise. Would he like to see his baby She-Weasel or father meet their horrific fates in the mean clarity of memory, this time even more helpless than before to stop it?

He remembers his arm almost being tugged from its socket just as the world was flipping upside down and chomping fangs were all he could recognize, but he was pulled sideways out of his chair. Tripping over flailing limbs, knocked chairs, and his own feet -a dazed frenzy whirring in the space between his ears- he tried to keep pace with the steel clamp around his wrist. His head kept swiveling left and right to try and comprehend what was happening. The Battle hadn't been like this; this was much worse, more carnal and barbaric. And... and confusing.

How could he have forgotten he had a wand? He had seen the bolts of light flashing from the tip of a slashing, Holly wand, but he didn't do anything to help. All he could think about then was the fear stalling his brain and the panic he felt for himself and-

He comes back to himself just as he hears the first scuffle of a far-off rubbish container falling over. A cat yowls, or he likes to believe it's a cat. His head lifts from it's low-hanging position on his chest and turns to stare over his shoulder, his tired eyes attempting to burn holes through the wood.

_Draco hadn't realized the noisy level of hysteria inside the restaurant until he's outside it and the peacefulness of the street causes the small hairs on the back of his neck to rise._

"Christ! Are you alright? Let me have a look at you." Warm, callused hands turn him around and cup his face as bright green eyes dart and scrutinize him. He can only stare in a daze back, the chaos taking place behind the large plate of glass in an unreal blur off to the side. "Draco, did any of those things touch you- well, besides-"

It had happened so fast. He should have kept them running. He should of but he hadn't. He had felt safe and warm and so incredibly _stupid_, because he had seen the little bitch first.

They weren't the only ones that managed to make it out of the building.

"_Draco, can you hear me? Come on, we need to get out of here." He's pulling and Draco's resisting, rooted to the spot. His mouth opens to warn him, but it's too late. "Dray-" A loud snarl severs his name in half, and the viper strike of teeth appears like a smiling ghoul and catches the tender side of his neck, briefly separating him from the arrested blond.  
><em>_  
>"Stupify!" The attacker sails backward as a frozen knot of pale limbs, green fabric, and long auburn hair. "Fuck," he pants, staring at the dark alley she disappeared down. Draco watches as the hand that automatically flew up to hold his throat comes away dripping blood. Wide, green irises flicker with a realization Draco hasn't yet caught up to; he's stuck on the crimson seeping from flesh he's kissed and licked and nuzzled and sucked, and- and-<em>

_"We need to get you to St. Mungo's," Draco comments in a distant tone, not taking his eyes off the sight. He doesn't notice the flash of pain as the other man straightens his posture, hand falling away from stifling the blood flow. "I'll- I'll apparate us." He offers his own clean, shaking hand and feels a cold weight settle in his stomach when it isn't taken. All the commotion is muted. Trembling lips bend into a puzzled frown. "... take my hand."_

_A dark head replies with a resolute nod. The voice that sounds is unsteady yet determined. "They can't help me. I've been bit, Draco. We both know what that means."_

_Draco's already shaking his head in denial, gaining speed and becoming more frantic, because he does know and refuses to believe it. "No... No... No, no, no. Stop being stupid, none of that rubbish is true. We're leaving right now." He snatches at an arm but is quickly avoided and the distance between them grows several feet. Cold steel softens and looks on with hurt as he watches stubbornness he's grown to love take hold._

_"Draco... I can't go with you."_

It's assumed the chill air calls to them, as if they know their flesh belongs inside a morgue or six feet under, cradled in the ever-cool dirt and want desperately to revel in it, but can not by their labored movements and the frosty breath gusting past slack lips pumped from shriveled lungs. No one knows why they do any of the things they do, not for sure in any case, something about "Basic Instinct." Granger has plenty of theories and pours over articles written by muggle scientists like new religion, but, after a spectacular shouting match, had come to learn better than to converse with him about such things. He just finds it all a creative cruelty and asking _how-how-how_isn't going to help, not him at least.

It just seems to make sense: The monsters that come out at night.

"_What? Of course, you're coming with me. I'm sure if we just clean it up and- and heal it and perhaps put a bandage on it just to be sure, you'll be good as new." His head nods like a flopping doll's, agreeing with himself._

_"Draco... no, sweetheart. It won't be long now, and I can't risk you getting hurt because of me... There's no fixing this."_

_The other man becomes a distorted smear in his vision, and Draco blinks away tears. The burning in his chest and eyes converge into a large lump in his throat -choking him- until it bursts as a strained, "Fuck you, Potter!" and he shoves the dark-haired wizard hard._

_Draco wants a fight, because he knows if he does and he leaves, the other man will chase after him. It's the way it's always been, but deep down he fears, this time, he won't be followed._

_"Good, little Potter, the perfect Gryffindor... such a fucking coward. Nothing's going to happen to you! That in there, that's the bloody muggles' issue. Now come with me, we have to stop the bleeding!"He ends his shouting with his chest heaving, his eyes glaring daggers. He tries not to notice how pale the other man looks and focuses on his rage. It's easier that way: to concentrate on the emotion rather than the reality of the situation and realizing the futility of it. He wants to tackle the other man and force him into a side-along._

_As if Harry could read his mind, he takes another step back. "Draco, do me a favor. Look inside there, go on, look. That's everyone's issue, and it's going to happen to me like it did them."_

_"But they're mug-"_

_"And I'm a filthy half-blood!" he shouts, his shirt front soaked by his wound. Regret twists his features as he sees the effect his words have on the blond Slytherin. "...I'm sorry."_

_Finally under the pounding of fists and kicking legs, the front window to the restaurant splinters into a spider web pattern and gives. Glass flies outward followed by scrambling, cut up bodies, and the two men in the street hardly flinch. Biting his lip, Harry swoops forward and traps Draco in his arms just as the blond staggers back under his weight and clings to it._

_Maybe he's seen reason, maybe-_

_Watery green halt Draco's motions to grab his wand to disapparate and stares deeply into his red, tear-stained face. When their eyes lock for a long second, everything around them goes quiet except for the sound of their breaths mingling, the smell of the red wine they drank filling Draco's nostrils._

_"... I love you," Harry whispers, and something inside Draco breaks._

_Then, as if the world was waiting for those words alone, everything rushes back and Harry forces him away. "Don't come back for me."_

_Confused, Draco notices the foreign object in his hand. His nerves flare to stretched, tender limits as he reaches for Harry, but it's too late. "Portus!" and a sharp hook behind his navel drags him away in a whirl of color and light and deposits him on the floor of their sitting room. He lays there shaking for several frenzied heartbeats, the platinum band still clutched in his fist._

_After that, he tries everything to get out of the house: the floo, Disapparation, the doors, and windows, but the wards won't allow it. He collapses, sobbing beneath their bedroom window, an iron fire poker in hand and the glass scratched but unbroken. When the wards release their stranglehold and glass rains down around him from the window, he knows in that moment, Harry's dead._

He doesn't remember all that happens after that. Nothing good if the worried, pitying looks he receives from Pansy, Granger, and even the Weasel are anything to go by. Many things around the house had to be repaired, and the neighbors were reassured a rabid beast wasn't living next door; they knew and understood, because everyone knew now the beasts are outside and everyone had one of their own.

He doesn't know if they stay up like him though.

The first time was like waking from a bad dream only to realize you're still in it.

_He jerks awake at the sound of banging at the door. The book cradled loosely in his hands topples to the floor with a thud, but he pays it no attention reading the clock over the mantle with heavy eyes: __**11:34**__. He looks away when the banging continues and sparks of irritation manifest at his fingertips. He hopes whoever it is just goes away, because they aren't who he wants it to be -he's accept that now- but they are persistent._

_After a moment of scowling, he levers himself out of the chair -not his chair- this hideously red thing with more fluff than structure, and makes his way to the front door. The more awake he becomes and the closer he gets, the more he notices how odd the knocking is, how erratic it is and the strangeness of alternating between open slaps and punching fists. Is there an emergency? He stops in his tracks when the first growl reaches his ears. He swallows past the dryness in his mouth and carefully moves forward, his wand already in hand because he's learned to never go anywhere without it._

_The door is a solid slab of wood but at the top is a decorative window with frosted glass designs moonlight flows through. Holding his breath, he peers over and sees only the houses across the street. Just as he relaxes his calves to lower himself, his darting eyes catch movement on the edge of the streetlight's glow. He watches with interest as the silhouette shuffles to the house opposite of his, up the steps and is illuminated by the porch light. A shriek blisters in his throat, muffled by the slap of his hand over his mouth, and he ducks down, cowering and breathing too loud._

_A fist pounds right next to where his head is on the other side of the door, and he jumps, choking on air. The man -that thing- across the street used to be a neighbor of his, but he doesn't live there anymore, his widow does. A series of slaps patter behind him, and he leaps away from the door, gaping at it as if any moment it would crumble under the onslaught._

_Oh Merlin, oh fuck._

_The slaps transform into full-body slams, shaking the door in its frame, and he's sure if not for the wards-_

_The wards._

_No one should be able to get past the front gate after ten o'clock; well, no one save for him and-_

_"... Harry?" trembles past Draco's lips as he takes a tentative step closer to the rattling door. The slams matching the rhythm of his heart pounding against his ribcage, his shaking fingers reach out to graze the smooth grain of the door, sliding against it till he flattens his palm and absorbs the vibrations._

_"Harry?" he tries again louder, and the banging abruptly stops and is replaced by distressed, uneven keening. The sound calls to the broken pieces inside Draco and lures him closer until his front is pressed up against the door. His hand brushes the door knob and grips it tightly. He goes again on tip-toe and strains to look down over the edge._

_Tears run down his cheeks when he sees the tips of black, messy hair, and he knows for sure it's him because he's ran his fingers through and pulled and breathed in the scent of those disheveled locks so many times he needs to do it again._

_He has to._

_Fingers fumble for the lock, his insides squirming in excitement. Not a fake, but a genuine smile graces his face as he struggles with the bolt, but as quick as it blossoms, it falls and his hands still. Gray eyes squint at the wood surface where behind it the keening increases. If he concentrates, he can hear past it where Mr. Donovan across the street howls and tries to break down his own door with his rotting complexion and lone arm._

_Realization dawns, and nausea twists the eagerness in his gut into a sick knot, pushing him back several steps._

_As if sensing the distance, the keening reverts back to smacking and clawing. He jolts ramrod straight, salty tears leaking from his squeezed shut eyes. "I-" his voice cracks. "... I can't let you in, Harry."_

_Torturous groans and whimpers fill his ears, tearing his chest open, weakening his resolve._

_"I'm sorry, but I can't, all right? I just can't!" He shakes his head as he moves backwards until his back bumps into the stair banister._

_With the whining and snarling, he can't help but imagine Harry, his perfect Harry just outside, desperate to come in and Draco was denying him._

_But he knows deep down in his core that his perfect Harry won't be there if he opens that door. It'll be something worse, something dangerous and gruesome, something dead, an abomination... but still Harry._

_"I can't, Harry! Stop! … STOP!" he screams, falling to his knees, the energy zapped from him. The banging persists though, and he buries his face into his knees, sobs wracking his entire body and his heart feeling as if it might burst._

_"...please, please stop," he whimpers, but it continues through the night until well before the sun rises._

His days were altered after that. Harry doesn't come every night, and those times worry Draco till he's ill and heaving in a toilet bowl, because why wasn't Harry here and what the bloody hell could he be doing? It's why Draco leaves out the tea and dessert. Treacle tart is Harry's favorite, and if Draco gives him that he won't have to feed... from other sources. Draco likes to believe it's working, even though he finds the gooey contents smeared all over the door and mingling with shards of the plate strewn across the porch each morning.

Now he hears the heavy, dragging steps even before they reach the few stairs to the porch. The nervous pattering of his pulse settles under his skin to one of calm, because he needs him here tonight.

The first slap against the wood lands high over his head, and he turns to face the door, placing his hand where he feels Harry's scratching on the other side, the platinum ring glinting on his finger. Next comes the usual barrage of keening and banging and ramming, and Draco only stands there, hardly breathing and wondering how much longer he has to.

"... hey there, how are you today?" he murmurs with a sad grin. He's under no delusions that Harry understands him or that he will someday answer back; it's just nice to try, to cling to that crippling hope for just a little bit longer.

All his tears have been spent on dark hours of sitting devastated against this very door, talking about his days or reminiscing over silly memories or simply crying. It always ends in crying, and his head hurts too much to do so anymore. His chest feels carved out, hollow, but he's known its been that way for weeks. It isn't a surprise. 'This sorrow, he refuses to be divorced from. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget, but this wound he considers his duty to keep open. This affliction he cherishes and broods over in solitude.' [1] What else is there to hold on to?

It's all that's keeping him standing.

… but for how much longer?

He knows if it's for Harry then forever is possible, after all Harry will be here... except Draco. And it's not even the obvious that would keep him from his masochistic vigil. He sees the looks and the way they whisper to each other as soon as he leaves the room and stop as soon as he enters. Granger has even tried approaching the subject of having Harry _permanently_ laid to rest and putting together a proper service for him. "_Harry wouldn't want this for you, and he especially wouldn't want to be a- a monster." _Draco had seen red, and in response activated the wards to force her bodily from the property.

No one hurts Harry.

She'd screamed from the curb that he needs help and colorless words like "Aurors" and "Janus Thickey Ward" were thrown around before she finally left.

Ignoring everyone's owls, he knows it's only a matter of time before they decide to do what they consider necessary and "take care" of Harry themselves. One simple blow to the head, that's how tenuous it is. How fragile it's all become. That's why-

"... this is has to end tonight." He's shaking as he makes this decision that's been lingering like a constant shadow over his thoughts, but his hand is steady as it moves to the lock. "They're going to take you away from me... and I just can't let that happen."

The knobs twists and the door shifts out of its frame like creaking bones. Oxygen burns, trapped, in his lungs, and every fiber of his being is telling him to run but he stays. His breath shudders from his chapped and parted lips, a smirk quirking the corner of his mouth as he eases the door open.

"Look I came back for you, you stubborn prat."

Then after that it's pain, toxic green light -green like Harry's eyes- and bliss.

The next day Pansy Parkinson is intent on doing what Hermione couldn't. Draco needs a firm hand, and she would be the one to deliver that swift smack. Too busy grumbling to herself, she doesn't realize something's different until she's reached the front steps. She freezes -the heavy mascara around her bright blue eyes dribbling black veins down her cheeks- and then she falls to her knees.

"... Draco, no, darling, no."

The door stands wide open, its surface sticky and littered with dirty hand prints. At its threshold is a mess of treacle and porcelain. Blood drips from the brass knob and pools around the mess, bright in the sunlight.

And at the center of it all is a scarlet spattered serviette with two shining forks tucked beneath its folds.

Fin.

[1] Altered quote by Washington Irving


End file.
